1
BETTY
The wind is a razor, slicing through the gaps in my thin cloak.
It’s an Oshtan wind, carrying the iron-sharp scent of the mountains and the heavy, damp smell of snow. And beneath that, the smell of burning pine.
Woodsmoke.
My stomach seizes. The scent is a ghost of another fire, of screams and melting snow, of a life that burned down to ash because of me. My hand comes up, fingers finding a lock of messy brown hair by my ear, twisting it, twisting, until my scalp stings. The small pain is an anchor. It’s real. The rest is just a ghost.
Oakhaven is a village of ghosts. We’re all just waiting for the cold to take us.
I pull my cloak tighter, my gaze sweeping the Lowtown. A few withered, brown wreaths hang on doors, pathetic symbols of a Christmas we don't have the heart to celebrate. It's a holiday of hope. And hope is a cruel joke in a world ruled by Dark Elves.
"Betty."
Joric’s voice. I stop, my shoulders tightening, but I turn.
He stands in my path, his hands fisted in his pockets. He’s young, like me, but the harsh life here has already carved deep lines into his face.
"Joric."
He pulls one hand from his pocket, his movements stiff. "I... I made this. For you. For Christmas."
He holds it out. A small deer, carved from a knob of pale wood. It's beautiful. The lines are smooth, the creature caught in a moment of poised, delicate life. A life that doesn't exist here.
A new kind of guilt, sharp and hot, floods my throat. He's a good man. He deserves a woman who is whole, not a hollow shell. "It's beautiful, Joric. But I can't."
His face, so full of fragile hope a second ago, shutters. His jaw clenches, the muscles standing out. "Always 'can't,' Betty."
"Please. It's not you. I just..." I don't deserve it. I don't deserve anything. "I can't."
He shoves the small, perfect deer back into his pocket, his shoulders stiff with pride and hurt. "Heard you're taking the wood run again. To the edge." His voice is hard now, accusatory. "It's foolish. Elder Maeve told you to stay inside the old boundary. Worgs have been seen."
"We need the wood, Joric."
"Let someone else go. Let me go."
"I'm going."
His eyes scan my face, searching for the girl I used to be. He'll never find her. "You want something to happen, don't you? You walk around here like you're already dead."
His words hit their mark, a precise, painful strike. I turn away from him, my hatchet in hand. "The village needs wood, Joric. I'll be back before dusk."
I don't wait for his reply. I walk past the sagging palisade, past the last hovel, and into the suffocating silence of the snow-choked forest.
Joric was right to be angry. I am reckless. Maybe a beast will find me. Maybe it would be... a relief.
This is my penance.
I’m just too cowardly to finish the job. My family—my mother, my father, my little brother—they’re all ash, all because I thought I could be a hero. Because I hid an escaped slave, and the Dark Elves made an example of us. I was the only one who got out.
I should have burned with them.
The hatchet feels heavy in my numb fingers. I push deeper into the woods, to the "edge" where the trees are old and the deadfall is thick. Every villager with sense stays away. They fear the Worgs, the Batlaz, the things that skitter in the dark.
I fear the smell of woodsmoke.
